Malik ignored his cousin. ‘‘Tell me, Chantal,’’ and his deep voice was like velvet against her senses—his timbre, rich, sensual, impossibly male. ‘‘When you’re queen, what is the first thing you’ll do?’’

* * *

Nicolette wished Fatima were not here, hanging on to every word. ‘‘Do you mean as in programs?’’ she asked, thinking about all the causes near and dear to her family’s heart back in Melio.

‘‘Programs, issues, activities. I’m just curious to know what you’d care about as queen. How you’d spend your time and energy here.’’

Nic had her causes, too, and since discovering the extent of Chantal’s misery in La Croix, Nicolette had taken it upon herself to set up women’s centers on each of the islands in Melio where women could ask questions, request help, even seek refuge.

She’d do the same thing here, too. She’d want to do something for women. It’d stunned her that Chantal had been physically abused, but now that Nicolette’s eyes were opened, she was determined to reach as many women as she could. If Chantal had suffered in such silence, God only knows the number of women in need. The number of women not helped.

‘‘I’d like to help women,’’ Nicolette answered evenly, knowing that Malik was now aware of Chantal’s wretched life in La Croix. ‘‘I have the name, the visibility, and the connections—all I lack is the means.’’

‘‘Which you won’t lack as Queen of Baraka.’’

Nic thought of the women living in Baraka who might be in desperate need of a helping hand. If she as Queen couldn’t make a change for the better, then who could?

But you won’t be queen, she reminded herself. This is just a game…

But it didn’t feel like a game anymore. Not at all.

She slowly peeled off her long pale green evening gloves. Everything about her life here felt real. Her emotions, her hopes, her worries.

‘‘How would you begin?’’ Malik persisted, apparently genuinely interested in wanting to hear more.

‘‘Education.’’ Nic lay the satin gloves on top of her small beaded purse. Chantal would never support this issue though. Chantal couldn’t fight for herself, much less anyone else. ‘‘I’d want to improve education for girls—’’

‘‘Our education here is excellent,’’ Fatima interrupted. ‘‘Girls are treated very well in Baraka. The majority attend school.’’

‘‘Yes, you did, Fatima,’’ Nicolette answered gently. ‘‘You hold a college degree, and your parents supported your educational pursuit, but that’s not the norm for poorer families, is it?’’ Nic didn’t wait for Fatima to answer. ‘‘If I were queen, I’d like to see all children in school until seventeen, and I’d want to encourage girls to continue to college and vocational programs so that every girl has a choice in life, opportunity—’’

Fatima snapped her fingers. ‘‘They have a choice. They can choose marriage, they aren’t married against their will. Parents and matchmakers consult daughters here. We are not barbaric like some countries. And a wife and mother is always loved.’’

As if saying yes or no to an arranged spouse was freedom of choice!

Nic said nothing for a long moment then shook her head. ‘‘There are many ways of being loved. Women should at least have the option to choose how they are loved, and that includes choosing career or home. Women shouldn’t be home because they have no other choice, but because it’s the place they choose to be. The path they seek.’’

‘‘And you, Princess Chantal,’’ Malik interjected kindly, diffusing some of the tension, ‘‘are you doing what you want to be? Have you found your path?’’

Nicolette met his gaze in the shadows of the car. Ah, tricky question. Had she found her path?

No.

Had she ever tried to find her path before?

No.

Why?

‘‘I think I’m still searching,’’ she said after a moment, feeling foolish, aware of Fatima’s seething animosity.

‘‘So what are you searching for?’’ His question was maddeningly simple.

Nic flashed back to the palace in Melio, her elderly grandparents, her sisters gathered in her bedroom, all of them sprawled on her bed talking about the future, what needed to be done for the future of their country. ‘‘Me,’’ she whispered.

Fatima snorted in disgust. ‘‘Typical Western answer,’’ she muttered, turning her head away, staring pointedly out the car window.

Heat burned through Nic, a blush flooding her face. Me, she silently mocked herself. Me, had been such a self-absorbed an swer. A childish concept.

Searching for oneself.

Trying to find oneself.

‘‘We’re all called to search for the truth,’’ Malik said, and she looked up to find that his expression had gentled, and there was compassion in his cool silver gaze. ‘‘Without self-knowledge, we are nothing. If we do not know ourselves, we can not love ourselves, or anyone else for that matter.’’

Nic’s eyes suddenly watered. She bent her head, focused on the pair of pale green gloves draped across her small evening purse, telling herself that no matter what, she couldn’t, wouldn’t, cry in front of Fatima. ‘‘Thank you.’’

Arriving back at the palace, Malik didn’t have to walk Nicolette back to her rooms, but he insisted, and she was glad. Well, sort of glad. Her heart felt very heavy at the moment and things she thought she could do, things she thought she could ignore, weren’t quite so cut and dry anymore.

She was deceiving a man she greatly admired.

The quiet of the palace, and the spots of moonlight shimmering on the marble floor wrapped around Nicolette, making her feel truly lonely for the first time since she arrived.

‘‘Do you ever wonder if perhaps you have the wrong sister?’’ she asked softly, her voice barely audible.

Malik glanced down at her, his expression one of concern. ‘‘Do you think I have the wrong sister?’’

‘‘I just wonder if perhaps I’m not really the one you want…’’

His brow furrowed. ‘‘In terms of outlook? Attitude?’’

Her shoulders lifted, fell, the silk of her gown sliding across her skin. ‘‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m confused why you picked me. Why not one of the others?’’

They’d reached her suite of rooms and stood outside her door. ‘‘I suppose I could have proposed to Joelle instead,’’ he said, rubbing his jaw.

‘‘Joelle?’’ Why Joelle? She’s barely an adult. ‘‘She’s too young for you.’’

‘‘Perhaps you’re too old for me.’’

Nic felt her cheeks burn. ‘‘You’re at least ten years older than me, King Nuri.’’

‘‘But let’s be honest, Chantal, shall we? I’m excited about marriage and the possibility of having a family. You, forgive me, seem so blase´ about it all. I would rather have a young bride eager to experience marriage and motherhood than a wife that dreads matrimony.’’

‘‘Yet there are three Ducasse princesses. You haven’t mentioned Nicolette.’’

He waved a hand, brushing aside the suggestion. ‘‘She was never an option.’’

‘‘Why not?’’

Another impatient gesture. ‘‘She’s not suitable—’’

‘‘Why not?’’

He gave her a sharp look. ‘‘If this is upsetting you, we ought not continue the discussion.’’

‘‘It is upsetting me, and we should continue the conversation because I want to understand. Nicolette’s much beloved by her people—’’

‘‘Yes, but to be Queen Nuri, queen of Baraka, one must be more than great, one must be above reproach.’’

Apparently Chantal hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said that Nic’s reputation was destroying her chances of a good marriage. ‘‘Yet you’ve never even met her. How can you be so critical?’’

He didn’t look the least bit apologetic. ‘‘It’s common knowledge that she prefers playboys and libertines.’’

Playboys? ‘‘Libertines?’’

‘‘She’s not a virgin.’’

Nic flushed hotly. ‘‘Neither am I.’’

‘‘But you were when you married.’’

Nic squeezed the gloves into a ball in her hand. And Joelle was still innocent. Damn him. What was wrong with a woman experimenting a little? Figuring out what she wanted…needed? Why could a man do what he wanted but a woman had to worry about reputation? ‘‘You’re not a virgin.’’

His lips curved but he wasn’t smiling. ‘‘It’s a man’s duty to know how to pleasure his wife.’’

‘‘And a woman has no need to know how to pleasure a man?’’

‘‘Her husband will teach her.’’

‘‘That’s absurd!’’

‘‘Why?’’

She thought of poor Chantal, married off as a twenty-two year old virgin to a man who didn’t give a fig for her happiness, or comfort, and who most certainly didn’t bother to educate her in the art of love. Nic was certain that Chantal had never had an orgasm in her life—and if she’d had—it was probably alone. ‘‘My late husband taught me nothing.’’

‘‘Then he failed in his duty.’’

‘‘Just as I am quite certain that many men then ‘fail in their duty.’ Most men still have no concept where the clitoris is let alone how to touch it!’’

His stunned silence said more than words ever could. Nic realized she’d said far, far too much and she gripped her gloves so tightly she felt frozen in place.

Why was she so intent on changing his opinion about ‘‘Nicolette’’? What did it matter if he disapproved of her? Let him think what he wanted to think. It was foolish and irresponsible to let her ego get the better of her. She had to protect Chantal. She had to play Chantal until she’d gotten word that Lilly was safe.

‘‘I said too much,’’ she said, swallowing hard, realizing she was swallowing her pride.

But he said nothing.

She’d have to apologize again. ‘‘I was wrong, Malik. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so…detailed.’’

‘‘I didn’t realize you’d had so much experience.’’

‘‘I’m a woman. I have friends. Sisters—’’

‘‘Nicolette.’’

He’d said her name so disapprovingly that it made her stomach free fall. ‘‘You really don’t like her.’’

‘‘I don’t know her.’’

Nic nodded painfully, her face still scalding hot, more from anger than shame.

After he’d left, Nic let herself into her suite of rooms, and with her insides still churning with resentment, she changed into her pajamas, and then wandered outside. Trying to calm herself, she walked the length of her private courtyard with the deep still pool and the fountain with the beautiful marble statue.

It was late out, but the night was still hot, and the sultry night air hung on her, making her want to turn around and retreat to the cool dark suite. But she couldn’t go inside. She felt even more trapped inside. Scared, too.

Malik occupied her thoughts lately—endlessly. She wanted to pretend it was mere curiosity, cultural fascination, even sexual infatuation, but deep down she knew her interest was so much more than that.

He was an ideal ruler for a country like Baraka where the culture dated back thousands of years and people had been forced to reinvent themselves following earthquakes, fires, tragedies.

And God knows she didn’t want to shame him, not in front of his people. Not in front of the world. And certainly not in private, either.

How on earth was she going to extricate herself from this? It would be one thing if he liked Princess Nicolette. It would ease some of her guilt and misery. But he didn’t like Nicolette. He’d been most clear from the beginning that he would not, could not make Nicolette Ducasse his queen.

So maybe there lay the solution to her problem.

If she didn’t want to embarrass him by breaking the engagement, she’d force him into taking action. She’d continue the masquerade as long as necessary, and then, once Lilly was safe, Nic would she reveal the shocking truth—that she was really that blonde, shallow, wanton princess he so despised.

He’d never marry her then.

Nic crossed her arms over her chest and tipped her head back to take in the dark purplish sky and bit her lip to keep from crying.

She couldn’t cry. For heaven’s sake! She wasn’t here to find true love. She was here to get a job done.

It’s a job, she reminded herself, crawling into bed. She was helping those who needed her most.

Early the next morning Fatima was admitted to Malik’s office and seeing him still on the phone, she took a seat on a low chair in the corner and waited patiently for him to finish his conversation.

When he finally hung up, he looked up at her. He was wearing a pair of dark framed reading glasses. ‘‘Do you know why I wanted to see you?’’

Fatima’s tranquil expression betrayed nothing. ‘‘You will tell me, I am sure.’’

He studied his cousin a long moment. Fatima had taken an almost immediate dislike to Nicolette and he still hadn’t figured out if it was jealousy, insecurity or something deeper. ‘‘I’ve felt your hostility to our guest.’’

Fatima didn’t even blink. ‘‘She’s not going to marry you, cousin.’’

‘‘Not if you continue to intimidate her.’’

Fatima lifted her right hand, a gentle dismissal. ‘‘I am being truthful with her, and with you. I do not trust her, Malik. She’s playing you.’’

One of his black eyebrows arched slightly. He barely glanced her way. ‘‘That’s an awfully Western expression coming from you.’’

‘‘I’ve been to the West, I’ve lived in the West, I understand Western culture as well as you do.’’ Fatima shook her head soberly. ‘‘Malik. Listen to me.’’ She stared at him pointedly, one of those dagger sharp stares that is next to impossible to ignore.

He met her gaze, her dark eyes unsmiling. ‘‘Listen to me, cousin,’’ she added flatly, no urgency in her voice, just conviction. ‘‘She’s. Not. Going. To. Marry. You.’’

Malik pulled off his reading glasses and dropped them on his desk, rubbing his eyes as he did so. ‘‘Why not?’’

‘‘She’s too independent. She’s not interested in our country, or culture, and quite honestly, I don’t think she’s all that interested in you.’’

Malik frowned, partially agreeing with her, partially disagreeing knowing that Fatima had always been bright, but she didn’t know about chemistry, or attraction. She had no concept about physical desire, and when it came to physical desire, the princess was very attracted to him. Nic might not want to marry him, but she definitely was interested in being intimate with him.

‘‘I’m not worried,’’ he said rising from his chair and moving toward Fatima. ‘‘She needs me,’’ he said, standing over his cousin. ‘‘Her country needs what I can offer.’’

Fatima shook her head. ‘‘But what if she gets just enough from you that she doesn’t need the rest? What if she needs less than you think she does?’’

Good point. Fatima had always been smart. She’d excelled in school. She could have done anything with her life, but she’d chosen to remain here, at the palace. What would she do with her life, he’d often wondered. A member of the royal family, she was worth a fortune and with her father dead, her mother living in New York, she belonged beneath his protection. Who would ever be good enough for her?

‘‘I’ll have to be careful then, won’t I?’’ he answered evenly, and then he smiled at her. She was beautiful. Dark eyes, high cheekbones, firm chin, slightly pointed with masses of long silky black hair. Fatima looked like their grandmother but she had her father’s cunning mind. ‘‘Now you better go. The princess will be waiting for her language lesson.’’

Nicolette was waiting in the salon for Fatima, but she wasn’t thinking about her lesson. She was thinking that she had the strangest secret. It was her birthday today, her real birthday, but she couldn’t celebrate because no one knew who she really was.

It was rather odd thinking she’d reached twenty-seven. Suddenly it seemed like such an old age. Chantal had already been married several years when she turned twenty-seven. So far Nicolette had done…what?

Nothing.

Fatima arrived and the lesson proceeded without incident, and then as the serving girl arrived, bringing the now expected tray of tea and sweet biscuits, the serving girl curtsied to Nicolette. ‘‘Princess, His Highness would like you to join him for a late breakfast,’’ the girl said. ‘‘I’m to show you the way.’’

Fatima’s face tightened but she didn’t protest, and Nicolette followed the serving girl through the corridors and out to one of the gorgeous inner courtyards reserved for the sultan’s personal use.

Malik was already at the wrought-iron table that had been set for two. Bright flowers filled a dark green glass vase and Nic decided she’d make this her birthday party. He didn’t even need to know it was her birthday. It was enough that she could be with him now, start her day with his company. Already his company meant so much…

‘‘Good morning,’’ Malik greeted, leaning forward to kiss her on each cheek. ‘‘I’ve been thinking of you.’’

She shivered as his lips grazed her cheek. He smelled lovely. She wished she could capture his face between her hands and kiss him properly. No more fleeting kisses on the cheeks, but a long, deep kiss, one that would make her melt again. ‘‘Have you?’’

He leaned forward on the table, his black hair almost glossy in the bright light. ‘‘I’ve also felt very guilty.’’

‘‘Why?’’

‘‘I’ve been unkind with regards to your sister. I know how I feel about my brother and sisters and wouldn’t tolerate anyone speaking harshly about them, and yet I have been incredibly intolerant of Nicolette’s idiosyncrasies. Forgive me.’’

Nic looked away, embarrassed as well as uncomfortable. ‘‘She’s not really so—eccentric.’’ She’d intended to reply matter of factly, but to her shame, her voice broke. Even when he apologized he made it sound as if Nic was this peculiar woman with cannibalistic tendencies. ‘‘Maybe she’s not Barakan, but she’s good. And kind. And she doesn’t say cruel things about people.’’ Nic drew a wobbly breath, shaken. ‘‘She doesn’t judge people, either. And she wouldn’t be here right now, judging you, or judging your cousin Fatima who can’t say a nice thing about anyone.’’

Finished she sat there, words spent, emotion spent, all illusions about a party dashed. It wasn’t a fun birthday morning. It was another horrible day living a lie. ‘‘Would you excuse me, please?’’ she whispered.

‘‘No.’’

His refusal surprised her. She pushed away from the table. He might be king in Baraka, but she was royalty in Europe. ‘‘I’d like to return to my lessons with Fatima.’’

‘‘Even though she’s judgmental?’’

‘‘I’d rather her be judgmental than you.’’

‘‘Why?’’

Tears burned in her eyes and she looked at him so overwhelmed by emotions she hadn’t expected to feel that she didn’t even think she could find her voice.

‘‘Why?’’ he demanded yet again.

The rest of Nic’s control snapped. ‘‘Because I like you. I don’t want you to be mean. Or petty. I don’t want you to be cruel just because Nicolette isn’t your idea of the perfect woman. No one’s perfect, King Nuri, and even those of us who aren’t perfect, are still pretty worthy of love, and loyalty.’’

‘‘I was apologizing—’’

‘‘Not really. Not enough.’’ Her lip quivered. She felt so wretched she couldn’t even bear it. ‘‘It’s her birthday today, and I don’t think she deserves this—’’

‘‘I know it’s her birthday!’’ He nearly shouted, his voice echoing. ‘‘That’s why you’re here with me this morning. I wanted to celebrate with you.’’

She fought to regain control and her chest rose and fell with each deep shuddering breath. ‘‘How did you know it’s her birthday? You don’t even like her.’’

He stood, leaned across the table, cupping the back of her head, and kissed her. ‘‘Because I like you,’’ he said, kissing her again. ‘‘I like you so much I’ve tried to learn everything I can about your family.’’

The tears shimmered in her eyes, making it very hard to see, but if she blinked, the tears would fall. ‘‘How old is she then?’’

‘‘Twenty-seven.’’ He reached up with the tip of her finger and caught the tears clinging to her lower lashes. ‘‘And I know you’re worried about her because she’s getting old and she’s still not married—’’

Nic batted away with his hand. ‘‘She’s not that old.’’

‘‘But she should be married, shouldn’t she?’’

And to show her he was teasing, he kissed her yet again, a light kiss, but something happened when his lips touched hers this time. The restraint was gone. The pure intentions disappeared. Instead emotion sizzled and the slow, tender kiss blazed into pure, raw, unadulterated desire.

Nic had felt desire, but this desire took her breath away, turned her belly inside out, made her ache with need.

She reached for him, fingers twining in his shirt, and his lips ruthlessly parted hers, his tongue stabbing at the softness of her mouth, tasting, teasing, making her aware that he’d been gentle with her so far, but he could also be fiercely hungry, and demanding.

Nic clung to him, welcoming the intensity, finding release in the violence of emotion. All her life she’d craved passion, and to find it here—and now—with Malik stunned her.

He lifted his head, stroked her cheek. ‘‘Forgive me. Please?’’

‘‘Of course.’’ And she managed a tremulous smile, something of a feat considering the intense desire still coiling inside her. It hurt to kiss. It hurt even more to end the kiss. She’d never felt so unfulfilled. ‘‘And Nic forgives you, too.’’

‘‘Then we can still have breakfast to celebrate her special day?’’

She grinned ruefully. ‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘And can we start over, pretend nothing’s happened?’’

Her laugh was soft, husky. ‘‘Are you that good of an actor?’’

‘‘Depends. Are you that good of an actress?’’

Nic thought of the past week at the palace. ‘‘No.’’ She laughed yet again, making fun of herself. ‘‘I’m a terrible actress. I’ve never been picked to play a lead in any of our school theatre productions.’’

He held her chair for her, and slid her chair into the table once she was seated. ‘‘Not even though you were a very famous princess?’’

She made a face. ‘‘I’d like to say there was a bias against princesses, but that isn’t the case. My sister, Joelle, is a fantastic actress. She also inherited Mom’s voice. Joelle’s voice is like an angel’s. You have to hear her sing one day—’’ Nic broke off, blushed. ‘‘Listen to me. You’ve turned me into a chatterbox.’’

He gestured for coffee and a steward instantly appeared, filling their cups. ‘‘You’re far from a chatterbox, Chantal. I have to work to make you talk.’’

Nic reached out to touch the floral arrangement, her fingertip brushing across one crimson rose petal. The damask roses in the floral arrangement made the air smell spicy and sweet. ‘‘Men like quiet women.’’

Malik spluttered on his coffee. ‘‘I can’t believe you say these things.’’

‘‘At least it makes you smile.’’

‘‘I’m just glad you’re smiling again.’’

CHAPTER SEVEN

THEIR eyes met and held. Nic saw the sincerity in his lovely silver gaze, and felt little ripples of pleasure hum through her. They were making small talk and yet below the surface the most intense attraction simmered, and the awareness that they both felt so much, fueled the desire.

‘‘So what is on your calendar today?’’ he asked, sitting back as a serving girl set a plate of fresh sliced, peeled fruits before him—mangos, papayas, kiwi, pomegranate. The colors were vivid, wet, glistening. Like jewels drenched by the rain.

Nic’s mouth watered. She was hungry. But not just for food. She wanted his mouth again, wanted his tongue and the spicy taste of his skin.

‘‘It’s busy,’’ she answered, knowing perfectly well that her schedule was packed with appointments, including another fitting followed by two hours in the kitchen with the master chef learning about Baraka’s cuisine before being given her first instruction in how to prepare the sultan’s favorite dishes.

‘‘Perhaps we’ve kept you too busy. The strain is showing.’’

She made a wry face. ‘‘Apologies, Your Highness.’’

He smiled. ‘‘Do you need a holiday?’’

‘‘No books? No activities? No homework? What would I do?’’ She feigned shock.

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